G is for Gumshoe (24 page)

Irene let out a sigh, finally taking it in. “Oh, the poor thing.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears, which spilled down her cheeks. Blotches of color had come up in her face and neck. She began to tremble uncontrollably, quivering like a wet dog in the midst of a bath. I grabbed her hand.

Clyde appeared in the doorway. From the look in his eyes, he'd been told what was going on. The receptionist had probably informed him as soon as he came in.

Irene turned beseechingly. “Clyde . . . Mother's
gone
,” she said. She reached for him, coming out of the chair and into his arms. He seemed to fold her in against him. For the first time, I realized how tiny she was. I looked away, not wanting to intrude on their intimacy.

I saw Dietz through the open doorway, leaning against the wall. His posture was identical to my first sight of him. Cowboy boots, his tweed coat. The hospital down in Brawley. All he needed was the toothbrush in his pocket, sticking up like a fountain pen. His gaze moved casually to mine, moved to Irene, came back to mine and held. The look in his eyes was quizzical, perplexed. His expression shifted from self-assurance to uncertainty. I felt an unexpected flash of heat. I broke off eye contact, feeling flushed. My gaze drifted back. He was still looking at me, with a wistfulness I hadn't seen before.

We all waited uncomfortably for Irene's tears to pass. Finally, Dr. Stackhouse moved toward the door and I followed. The two of us withdrew, moving out into the corridor.
As we walked back to the emergency room, Dietz fell into step with us, placing his hand on the back of my neck in a way that made me feel curious and alert. It was a gesture of possession and the physical connection was charged with a sudden current that made the air between us hum.

Dr. Stackhouse shook his head. “God, I'm sorry. It was a lousy break. Are you her granddaughter? Someone's going to have to talk to the police officer.”

I focused on the situation as if coming up for air. “I'm a friend of Mrs. Gersh's. Kinsey Millhone,” I said.

He glanced at me. “The one she was asking for.”

“So I'm told,” I said. “Do you have any idea what it was?”

“Well, I can tell you what she said, but I don't think it means much. She kept saying it was summer. ‘Tell her it used to be summer . . .' Is that significant?”

“Not to me,” I said. In her mind, it was probably connected to the long rambling tale she'd told me down at the desert. Emily and the earthquake, the Harpster girls and Arthur James. “That's all she said?”

“That's the only thing I heard.”

“Will there be an autopsy?”

“Probably. We put a call through to the coroner's office and a deputy's on the way. He'll talk to the pathologist and decide if it's warranted.”

“Which pathologist? Dr. Yee or Dr. Palchak?”

“Dr. Palchak,” he said. “Of course, the deputy may just go ahead and authorize us to sign the death certificate.”

“What about Agnes? Can we see her?”

He nodded. “Of course. She's just down the hall here. Whenever Mrs. Gersh is ready, the nurse will take you in.”

Agnes had been moved temporarily to a little-used examining
room at the end of the hall. Once we were gone, she'd be wheeled down to the basement and left in the refrigerated darkness of the morgue. Dietz waited in the hall with Clyde while Irene and I stood silently beside the gurney on which her mother lay. Death had smoothed many of the lines from her face. Under the white sheeting, she seemed small and frail, her beaky nose protruding prominently from the peaceful folds of her face.

There was a discreet knock at the door. A young uniformed police officer came into the room and introduced himself. He'd brought Agnes in and he talked to Irene briefly about his encounter with her mother. “She seemed like a very nice person, ma'am. I just thought you might like to know she didn't give me any trouble . . .”

Irene's eyes brimmed. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Was she in pain? I can't stand to think about what she must have gone through.”

“No, ma'am. I wouldn't say so. She might have been confused, but she didn't seem to be in pain or anything like that.”

“Thank God for that. Did she ask for me?”

Color tinted his cheeks. “I couldn't say for sure. I know she mentioned somebody named Sheila.”

“Sheila?” Irene said blankly.

“I'm pretty sure that was it. She did cry some. She said she was sorry to be a bother. I kept talking to her, telling her everything was fine. She quieted down after that and seemed all right till we got here. I know the staff did everything possible to save her. I guess sometimes they just go like that.”

Irene's chin began to quiver. She pressed a handkerchief
to her mouth while she shook her head, whispering. “I had no idea she was dying. My God, if we'd only hurried we might have been here in time . . .”

The officer shifted uneasily. “I'll step out in the waiting room and finish filling out my report. I believe the sheriff's deputy's out there now. He'll need some information as soon as you're up to it.” He moved out into the hall, leaving the door ajar.

After a moment, Clyde came in. He put his arm around Irene's shoulder and walked her out toward the reception area. Before the door closed again, I caught a glimpse of the sheriff's deputy in the corridor, conferring with his STPD counterpart. I gathered the city police had reported the death to the county coroner's office, since Agnes was listed as missing and the last hours of her life were still unaccounted for. The coroner would make a determination as to the circumstances, manner, and cause of death. If she should be classified as a homicide victim, the city police would assume responsibility for the criminal investigation. I was guessing the death would be considered “nonreportable” in coroner's terms, but that remained to be seen. An autopsy might be done in any event.

Alone with the body, I lifted one corner of the sheet, reaching for the cool, unyielding flesh of Agnes's left hand. Her knuckles were scraped. Two nails were broken. On her ring finger and her pinkie there was soil impacted under the nails. The receptionist came into the room behind me. I slipped her hand under the sheet again and turned. “Yes?”

“Mr. Gersh said to tell you he's taking his wife out to the car. The other gentleman is waiting.”

“What happened to her personal effects?”

“There wasn't much. Dr. Stackhouse set aside the articles of clothing for disposition by the coroner. She didn't have anything else with her when she was brought in.”

I scribbled a note to Dr. Palchak, asking her to call me. I left the message with the ER nurse as I passed the desk. Dietz wanted to call a cab, but Clyde insisted on dropping us back at my place. Irene cried inconsolably all the way home. I was grateful when Dietz finally unlocked the door and let us in. In the back seat of the Mercedes, he'd placed his hand beside mine, our little fingers touching in a way that made me feel my whole left side had been magnetized.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The minute I was inside, I headed for the loft, too exhausted to bother with social niceties.

“You want a glass of wine?” he asked.

I hesitated. I looked back at him, caught in midflight. I had one foot on the bottom step, my hand on the curved railing of the spiral staircase. “I don't think so. Thanks.”

There was a pause. He said, “Are you all right?”

We were suddenly talking in ways that felt unfamiliar, as if each exchange had a hidden meaning. His face seemed the same, but there was something new in his eyes. Where before his gaze had been opaque, there was now an appeal, some request he couldn't quite bring himself to voice. Sexuality stirred the air like the blades of a fan. Exhaustion fell away. All the danger, all the tension had been converted into this, mute longing. I could feel the lick of it along my legs, seeping through my clothes: something ancient, something dark, humankind's only antidote to death. The heat seemed to arc through the space between
us like a primitive experiment, born of night. This is what I understood: this man was like me, my twin, and suddenly, I knew that what I saw in him was a strange reflection of myself—my bravery, my competence, my fear of dependency. I'd been with him three days, separated by externals, neutered by survival instincts. Only desire could render us brave enough to cross that distance, but which of us would risk it?

I watched him lock the door. I watched him flick the lights out and cross the room. I started up the spiral staircase, turning at the third step. I held the railing, sank into a sitting position as he approached. Dietz was before me, his face level with mine. The room behind him was dark. Light spilled down from the loft, illuminating his solemn face. He leaned into the kiss, his mouth cold at first, his lips soft. My craving for him was as tangible as a finger of heat driven up through my core. I was lying on the stairs, metal risers cutting into my back until pain and desire had blended into a single sensation. I stroked his cheek, touched the silky strands of his hair while he buried his face against me, nuzzling my breasts through my cotton T-shirt. We moved together in mock intercourse, clothes on, bodies arching. I could hear the sound of fabric on fabric, his breathing, mine. I reached down and touched him. He made an inhuman sound, lifting away from me, pulling me after him as he moved up the spiral staircase. The bed was better and we undressed by degrees as we kissed. The first shock of heat when he laid his naked flesh along mine made him say, “Oh . . . sweet Jesus,” very softly. After that, there were no words until the moment of oblivion. Making love with this man was like no other lovemaking
I've experienced . . . some external chord resolved at its peak, ageless music resonating through our bones, the spilling of secrets, flesh on flesh, moment after moment until we were fused. I fell into a deep sleep, my limbs wound into his, and never knew a waking until daylight came. At six o'clock, I stirred, vaguely aware that I was alone in bed. I could hear Dietz moving around downstairs. He had the radio on and I caught strains of a Tammy Wynette tune poignant enough to rip your heart out. For once, I didn't care.

At some point, the doorbell rang . . . the UPS man (a real one) with the box I'd shipped up from Brawley. Dietz took delivery, as I was still dead to the world. Soon after that, the smell of perking coffee wafted up the stairs. I roused myself, made my bed, fumbled my way into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I showered, washed my hair, and then got dressed, slipping into the jeans and shirt I'd worn the night before. No point in contributing either to the laundry pile just yet. I went downstairs.

Dietz was perched on a bar stool at the counter, the paper open in front of him, empty juice glass and cereal bowl pushed to one side so he could read. He reached a hand back. I put my arms around him from behind. He kissed me with a mouth so fresh, I could taste the cereal. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. You?”

“Mmm. Your package arrived.”

The box was sitting just inside the door, addressed to me in my own writing. “Have you inspected this for incendiary devices?”

His tone was dry. “It's clear. Go ahead.”

I got a paring knife from the kitchen drawer and slit the strapping tape. The articles were packed as I remembered them, my all-purpose dress close to the surface. I pulled it out and inspected it, relieved to find it in better shape than I'd hoped. It was only moderately encrusted with mold, though it did smell of swamp gas, a scent that hovered somewhere between spoiled eggs and old toilet bowls.

Dietz caught one whiff and turned to me, his face twisted with distaste. “What
is
that? Good God . . .”

“This is my best dress,” I said. “I just need to throw it in the wash and it'll be fine.”

I set it aside and worked my way through the remaining contents, removing tools and other odds and ends. In the bottom was the child's tea set, still packed in the carton I'd pulled from under Agnes Grey's trailer. “I should drop this off at Irene's,” I remarked, placing the carton near the door. There were few, if any, personal items left to commemorate Agnes Grey's eighty-three years on earth and I thought Irene might appreciate the articles.

Dietz looked up from his paper. “Which reminds me. Dr. Palchak called at seven thirty this morning with the autopsy results. She wanted you to call her whenever you got up.”

“That was fast.”

“That's what I thought. She says she likes to get in at five when she's got a post.”

I dialed the number for St. Terry's and asked for pathology. I'd dealt with Laura Palchak maybe twice before. She's short, plain, heavyset, competent, hardworking, thorough, and very smart, one of several pathologists under contract to the county, handling postmortem examinations for the coroner's office.

“Palchak,” she said when she came on the line.

“Hi, Laura. Kinsey Millhone. Thanks for responding to my note. What's the story on Agnes Grey?”

There was a brief pause. “The coroner's office will be contacting Mrs. Gersh a little later this morning so this is just between us, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“The autopsy was negative. We won't have the toxi results back for weeks, but the gross came up blank.”

“So what's the cause of death?”

“Essentially, it was cardiac arrest, but hell . . . everybody dies of cardiac or respiratory arrest if you want to get right down to it. The point is there was no demonstrable organic heart disease and no other natural findings that contributed to death. Technically, we have to list the cause of death as undetermined.”

“What's that mean, ‘technically'? I don't like the way you said that.”

She laughed. “Good question. You're right. I have a hunch about this one, but I need to do some research. I've talked to the hospital librarian about tracking down an article I read a few years back. I don't know what made me think of it, but something about this situation rang a little bell.”